3    325    33fl 


TKe  Teller 


Edward  Noyes 
Westcott 


THE  TELLER 


From  a  photograph  taken  in  1897. 


THE  TELLER 

A  Story 


By       :.'£•:• 

Edward  Noyes  Westcott 

Author  of  David  Harum 


WITH  THE  LETTERS  OF 
EDWARD    NOYES   WESTCOTT 

Edited  by  Margaret  Westcott  Muzzey 

AND  AN  ACCOUNT  OF  HIS  LIFE 
By  Forbes  Heermans 


New  York 

D.  Appleton  and  Company 
1901 


COPYRIGHT,  1899, 1901 
BY  D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


A II  rights  reserved 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  TELLER 3 

THE  LETTERS  OF  EDWARD  NOYES  WEST- 

COTT 71 

EDWARD  NOYES  WESTCOTT     ...       99 


449472 


LIST  OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING 
PAGE 

Portrait  of  E.  N.  Westcott,  taken  in 

1897         ......          Frontispiece 

Portrait  of  E.  N.  Westcott,  taken  in  1875  .  •  71 
The  home  of  E.  N.  Westcott,  Syracuse,  N.  Y.  .  85 
Portrait  of  E.  N.  Westcott,  taken  in  1889  .  .  99 


Vll 


THE  TELLER 


THE  TELLER 


I 

HALF-PAST  nine  o'clock  of  a  hot, 
muggy  June  night  in  the  year  187-. 
The  teller  was  very  tired.  His  legs 
ached,  his  back  ached,  and  his  feet 
ached,  for,  save  for  the  noon  hour  and 
time  for  a  hurried  meal  at  six  o'clock, 
he  had  been  on  them  almost  without 
intermission  since  nine  in  the  morning. 
It  might  almost  have  been  said  that  his 
heart  ached.  At  any  rate  he  was  very 
low  in  his  mind.  He  had  just  finished 
going  over  for  the  second  time  every 
entry  and  every  footing  of  the  day's 

3 


A'*llT3he  Teller 


business — -deposit  slips,  exchange  slips, 
credit  journal,  debit  journal,  discount 
register,  tickler — and  had  for  the  third 
time  counted  all  the  cash.  There  was 
no  doubt  about  it :  it  was  five  dollars 
"  short." 

"  That  makes  a  hundred  and  ninety- 
two  dollars  in  the  last  six  months,"  he 
said  ruefully  to  himself.  "  I  must  have 
the  matter  out  with  the  cashier  to- 
morrow." 


II 

THE  teller  was  of  one  of  the  best 
families  in  Chesterton.  The  doctor 
(the  teller's  father)  had  been  not  only 
a  popular  and  esteemed  physician,  but 
a  man  of  breeding  and  culture!  His 
wife  was  an  educated  gentlewoman. 
During  the  doctor's  life  they  had  lived 
handsomely,  if  not  showily,  and  the 
teller  had  been  brought  up  as  the  son 
of  a  man  in  all  respects  well-to-do  in 
the  world.  At  the  doctor's  death,  how- 
ever, it  was  found  that  he  had  lived  up 
to  his  income  :  there  were  collectable 
accounts  enough  to  pay  his  outstanding 
debts  and  but  little  more.  The  old 
house  where  the  teller  was  born  was 

5 


The  Teller 


sold  for  enough  over  the  mortgage  to 
buy  a  small  house  in  a  less  fashionable 
quarter  of  the  town.  There  was  some 
life-insurance,  and  the  widow  had  a 
small  patrimony  of  her  own,  but  it  was 
necessary  for  her  son  to  give  up  his  col- 
lege career,  in  which  he  had  spent  a 
year,  and  find  some  way  of  earning 
money.  He  found  a  place  in  the 
Franklin  Bank,  where,  owing  to  favora- 
ble circumstances  and  a  diligent  apti- 
tude, his  promotion  had  been  rapid ; 
and  at  the  time  of  this  writing  he  had 
been  the  teller  for  some  three  years 
out  of  between  seven  and  eight  of  his 
service. 

In  magnitude  of  business  the  Frank- 
lin Bank  was  the  leading  institution  of 
its  kind  in  Chesterton.  Among  the 
directors,  and  the  largest  stockholder, 
was  Mr.  Alfred  Samno.  He  was  in  a 
6 


The  Teller 


large  way  a  manufacturer  of  heavy 
chemicals,  so  far  as  active  business  was 
concerned,  but  he  was  a  capitalist 
besides,  and  interested  in  many  enter- 
prises. He  was  not  a  native  of  Ches- 
terton, but  had  come  there  from  a 
smaller  town  some  fifteen  years  earlier, 
already  a  wealthy  man.  He  was  a 
widower  with  two  -children — a  boy, 
Charles,  now  about  seventeen,  and  a 
daughter  some  five  years  older.  Helen 
Samno  had  been  practically  mistress  of 
her  father's  house  ever  since  her  gradu- 
ation from  school  at  Farmington,  her 
mother  having  been  bedridden  for  a 
year  previous  to  her  death.  Her 
brother,  a  boy  of  between  eleven  and 
twelve  at  the  time  of  her  return,  had 
been  the  object  of  her  anxious  solici- 
tude and  most  tender  devotion,  which 
were  increased  if  possible  as  he  grew 
7 


The  Teller 


older,  because  as  the  boy  matured  there 
developed  between  father  and  son  a 
certain  antagonism,  exhibited  by  what 
seemed  to  the  boy  unjust  and  relentless 
criticism  and  repression  on  his  father's 
part,  and  to  the  father  obdurate  sullen- 
ness  on  the  part  of  the  boy.  The 
Samno  household  was  conducted  upon 
a  liberal  scale.  The  bills  were  paid 
without  demur  or  criticism,  and  the 
daughter,  in  addition  to  a  liberal  allow- 
ance for  "  pin-money,"  had  practically 
carte  blanche  for  any  outlay  which 
seemed  proper  to  her.  There  was  but 
one  restriction,  and  that  was  that  she 
should  not  let  her  brother  have  money. 
The  old  man  had  gone  barefooted  him- 
self till  he  could  buy  his  own  boots  in 
the  summer,  and  not  only  could  not  see 
why  a  young  boy  should  want  patent- 
leather  shoes,  or  different  clothes  for 
8 


The  Teller 


evening  wear,  but,  above  all,  when  the 
necessaries  of  life  were  amply  at  his 
hand,  why  he  should  have  money  to 
"  throw  away  "  on  superfluities.  Conse- 
quently, requests  for  money  were  in- 
variably met  with  a  demand  to  know 
what  it  was  wanted  for ;  usually  with  a 
refusal ;  and  when  forthcoming  the  dole 
was  so  small  as  to  add  another  instance 
to  the  boy's  conviction  of  his  father's 
meanness. 


Ill 

IT  was  the  afternoon  of  a  day 
late  in  the  autumn  some  nine  months 
earlier  than  the  time  mentioned  at  the 
beginning  of  this  narrative.  There 
came  a  rap  on  the  door  of  Helen 
Samno's  room.  "Why,"  she  said,  as 
her  brother  came  in  and  seated  himself 
before  the  fire, — "why  aren't  you  at 
school  ?  Aren't  you  well  ?  " 

"  I'm  all  right,"  said  the  boy.  "  I'm 
not  going  to  school  any  more." 

"What?"  she  exclaimed  in  great 
surprise.  "  Who  says  so  ?  " 

"  I  say  so,"  was  the  reply ;  "I've 
been  up  to  the  office  since  dinner,  and 
had  it  out." 

10 


The  Teller 


"Why,  Charley!"  said  the  sister. 
"What  did  father  say?  what  did  you 
say?" 

"  Well,"  replied  Charley,  "  he  asked 
me  why  on  earth  I  wasn't  at  school,  and 
I  told  him  I'd  made  up  my  mind  I 
didn't  want  to  go  any  longer.  I  said  I 
didn't  want  to  go  to  college,  and  unless 
I  was  going  there  there  wasn't  any  use 
of  my  going  to  school  any  longer  ;  and 
that  I  was  sick  of  it,  and  wanted  to  go 
to  work  and  earn  some  money." 

"What  did  he  say?"  she  asked 
again.  "  Was  he  angry  ?  " 

"  Guess  so,"  said  the  boy  ;  "  he  gen- 
erally is  when  I  have  anything  to  say 
to  him  ;  but  he  didn't  say  much  for  a 
minute,  but  sat  with  his  lip  pulled 
down,  the  way  he  has.  Pretty  soon  he 
says,  *  Well,  I've  got  along  pretty  well 
without  learning  a  lot  of  things  that 
ii 


The  Teller 


wouldn't  have  done  me  a  cent's  worth 
of  good,  and  I  guess  you  can.  What 
do  you  want  to  do,'  he  says, — '  put  on 
some  overalls  and  go  up  to  the  yard  ? ' 
*  No,  sir,'  I  said,  '  I  guess  I  don't  care 
to  go  into  the  works  at  present,  and 
maybe  I  could  work  better  for  some- 
body else  anyway.' ' 

"  Charley  ! "  exclaimed  the  girl. 

"  I  don't  care,"  declared  the  boy. 
"  In  the  first  place,  I  don't  believe  he'd 
pay  me  a  cent,  and  I  get  about  all  the 
sulphuric  acid  and  stuff  I  want  at 
home." 

"  Do  you  know  what  you  want  to 
do  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  know  just  what 
I  want  to  do,  and  what  I'm  going  to 
do,  but  I  didn't  tell  the  old  man." 

"Don't  say  'the  old  man,'  dear," 
protested  Helen  ;  "  I  don't  like  to  hear 
12 


The  Teller 


you.  I  don't  think  you  are  quite  just 
to  your  father,"  she  added. 

"  Do  you  think  he  is  just  to  me  ?" 
said  the  boy. 

"  I  don't  think  you  always  quite  un- 
derstand each  other,"  she  said  with  a  lit- 
tle sigh.  "  But  tell  me  about  it." 

"  No,  I  should  say  not,"  he  ex- 
claimed. "Well,"  he  said,  "I'd  heard 
there  was  a  vacancy,  or  going  to  be, 
in  the  bank,  and  I  went  and  applied 
for  it— I  didn't  want  the  old— I  didn't 
want  father  to  have  anything  to  do 
with  it — and  I'm  going  to  work  in  the 
morning,"  he  concluded  with  a  little  air 
of  triumph,  which  his  sister  forbore  to 
disturb  by  suggesting  that  perhaps  his 
being  his  father's  son  had  made  some 
difference  in  his  reception.  She  got 
up  and  sat  on  the  arm  of  his  chair  and 
put  her  arm  about  his  neck.  There  was 
13 


The  Teller 


a  little  foreboding  at  her  heart.  It 
seemed  as  if  a  new  epoch  was  opening 
in  her  brother's  life. 

"What  do  you  think,  sis?"  said 
the  boy,  leaning  his  head  upon  her 
shoulder. 

She  touched  his  hair  with  her  lips, 
and  then  laid  her  cheek  upon  it.  "  It 
isn't  just  what  I  would  like  for  you, 
dear,"  she  said,  gazing  thoughtfully  into 
the  fire,  "and  not  what  I  had  hoped  for 
you,  but "  (recalling  what  the  boy  had 
said,  and  aware  of  her  father's  preju- 
dices) "  perhaps  it  is  the  best  thing,  for 
a  while  at  least.  There  will  be  plenty 
of  time  for  you  to  change  your  mind." 

They  sat  for  a  moment  or  two  in 
silence.  The  boy  nestled  his  head  a  lit- 
tle closer.  "  Sis,"  he  said,  "  if  everybody 
was  like  you,  I  guess  there  wouldn't  be 
very  much  trouble  in  the  world." 


The  Teller 


The  clasp  of  her  arm  tightened  a  bit. 
"I'm  afraid  I  know  myself  better  than 
you  do,  dear,"  she  said.  "  It  is  easy  to 
love  the  people  we  love,"  and  a  tiny 
moist  spot  dampened  his  hair. 


IV 

Miss  SAMNO  "went  out"  very  little 
for  the  two  years  after  her  return  from 
school.  It  may  be  said,  in  passing,  that 
there  were  a  good  many  people  of  those 
who  constituted  the  most  exclusive 
"  set "  in  Chesterton  who  did  not  know 
the  Samnos,  using  the  word  "know,"  so 
far  as  Miss  Samno  was  concerned,  in  its 
literal  sense.  Her  father  and  mother 
had  no  social  leanings  or  accomplish- 
ments, and  the  young  woman,  at  the 
time  when  she  might  naturally  have 
made  some  appearance  in  society,  had 
been  secluded  by  her  duties  and  care  for 
her  mother  and  a  year  of  deep  mourn- 
ing. It  was  something  over  two  years 
16 


The  Teller 


previous  to  the  event  noted  in  the  last 
chapter  that  the  teller  first  met  her. 
The  occasion  was  one  of  a  series  of 
subscription  parties  given  annually  by 
the  young  men  of  Chesterton.  Our 
friend  the  teller  was  one  of  the  com- 
mittee. To  him  came  an  acquaintance 
— Hildred  by  name,  and  known  to  his 
friends  as  Tom  and  Tommy.  "Say," 
said  Tom,  "  I  want  to  introduce  you  to 
a  young  woman  I've  brought  here  to- 
night, and  I  want  you  to  dance  with 
her  and  help  fill  up  her  card." 

"With  pleasure,"  said  the  teller; 
4 'but,  of  course,  I'm  rather  on  general 
duty  to-night,  you  know.  Who  is  your 
friend?" 

"Miss  Helen  Samno,"  said  Tom, 
"  and  this  is  her  first  large  party,  and  I 
want  her  to  have  a  good  time." 

"  Samno  ?  "  said  the  teller. 
17 


The  Teller 


"Yes,"  said  Tommy,  "daughter  of 
old  Samno,  who's  one  of  your  di- 
rectors." 

"  I  didn't  know  he  had  a  daughter," 
remarked  the  teller. 

"  Well,  you  bet  he's  got  a  daughter," 
said  Tom.  "  You  come  and  find  out." 
The  other  laughed  at  Tom's  obvious  en- 
thusiasm, being  quite  unable  to  imagine 
that  any  daughter  of  the  man  in  ques- 
tion would  be  likely  to  justify  it,  but  he 
found  himself  startled  almost  out  of  his 
good  manners  when  he  was  presented  to 

the  girl.  If  this  were  a  novel  now 

I  can  only  relate  that  he  instantly  ar- 
rived at  the  conviction  that  she  was 
the  most  beautiful  girl  he  had  ever  seen; 
he  later  decided  that  she  was  the  most 
charming;  and  it  hardly  seems  neces- 
sary to  add  that  his  responsibilities  as  a 
committee-man  were  only  remembered 
18 


The  Teller 


as  he  recalled  their  neglect.  He  went 
home  in  a  very  humble  frame  of  pro- 
found exaltation,  in  love — for  the  first 
and  last  time  in  his  life.  (I  know  it  is 
so,  because  I  have  his  word  for  it.) 

Our  friend  met  Miss  Helen  fre- 
quently that  winter,  and  there  came 
about  the  sort  of  friendship — so  called, 
which  has  love  on  one  side  of  it,  some- 
times on  both.  In  the  two  years  which 
followed  there  was  rarely  a  week,  ex- 
cept sometimes  when  she  was  away  in 
the  summer,  when  he  did  not  spend 
some  hours  in  the  Samno  house,  and  at 
the  end  of  the  time  he  was  more  in  love 
than  ever.  In  the  earlier  stages  of  his 
disorder  he  often  questioned  himself  as 
to  what  the  outcome  could  possibly  be, 
realizing  that  neither  his  circumstances 
nor  prospects  were  such  as  to  justify 
him  in  committing  himself  to  an  avowal 

19 


The  Teller 


which  would  call  for  response.  But  as 
time  went  on  and  his  feeling  for  the 
girl  strengthened  he  put  questions  to 
one  side  and  drifted.  Of  her  feeling 
for  him  he  did  not  know.  She  treated 
him,  for  the  most  part,  with  a  frank 
friendliness  which  gave  him  no  encour- 
agement to  feel  that  she  did  more  than 
to  like  him  perhaps  rather  better  than 
most  of  the  men  who  came  to  her 
house,  and  yet  once  or  twice  some  sub- 
tle thing  suggested  that  perhaps  she 
cared  for  him  in  a  different  way.  He 
longed  to  know,  and  yet  he  feared  to 
know.  The  present  was  so  good  that 
he  would  keep  the  future  out  of  his 
mind. 


20 


V 

THE  advent  of  a  new  clerk  in  the 
Franklin  Bank  was  not  an  event  of  suf- 
ficient magnitude  to  make  much  stir 
behind  the  counter.  -  The  teller  shook 
hands  smilingly,  hoping  that  the  new 
boy  would  like  his  work,  and  then  went 
on  with  his  preparations  for  the  day's 
business,  leaving  Helen's  brother  to  the 
ministrations  of  the  young  gentleman 
whose  place  the  novice  was  to  fill,  and 
who  was  to  stay  for  a  day  or  two,  to 
post  the  latter  in  his  duties.  In  his 
visits  at  the  Samno  house  our  friend 
had  from  the  first  occasionally  come  in 
contact  with  Master  Charley,  but  at  the 
outset  his  advances  toward  friendliness 
21 


The  Teller 


had  been  met  with  so  little  response, 
and  that  of  a  sort  of  sulky  shyness,  that 
he  had  come  to  treat  the  boy  with  no 
more  attention  than  politeness  required, 
and  to  regard  him  as  rather  a  sullen 
young  cub,  whose  occasional  presence 
in  the  drawing-room  for  a  while  was  a 
thing  to  be  endured  with  patience.  He 
had  no  suspicion  that  the  boy  was  jeal- 
ous of  him,  and  regarded  him  as  the 
most  possibly  dangerous  rival  in  the  re- 
gard of  his  sister,  whose  devotion  he 
returned  to  a  passionate  degree.  Con- 
versation used  to  languish  when  Master 
Charles  was  about,  and  our  friend  was 
sometimes  made  as  nearly  angry  with 
Miss  Helen  as  it  was  possible  for  him 
to  be  by  what  seemed  to  him  rather  an 
ostentatious  effort  to  keep  the  young 
fellow  in  the  room.  All  topics  were  in- 
teresting to  the  teller  which  Miss  Samno 
22 


The  Teller 


cared  to  discuss,  but  the  one  which  the 
least  excited  his  sympathy  was  her 
brother.  During  the  months  that  fol- 
lowed, however,  he  had  to  reply  to 
many  questions  regarding  the  boy's 
progress  in  his  work,  his  diligence,  his 
popularity  in  the  office,  et  c&tera,  and 
he  was  glad  to  reply  to  her  queries  in  a 
way  to  give  her  satisfaction,  though  it 
was  a  trifle  embarrassing  at  times,  as  it 
might  have  been  supposed  that  it  was 
the  young  woman's  impression  that 
most  of  the  teller's  solicitude  during 
business  hours  was  for  the  clerk  and  the 
proper  outcome  of  his  efforts,  and  that 
his  particular  functions  were  of  an  im- 
portance transcending  all  others  in  the 
office.  This  made  it  a  little  difficult 
for  the  teller,  particularly  as  he  surmised 
that  Charley  got  pretty  well  questioned 
as  to  matters  and  things  in  general,  and 
23 


The  Teller 


he  did  not  wish  statements  to  conflict. 
But  he  was  able  to  assure  her  that  her 
brother  not  only  seemed  interested,  but 
showed  rather  unusual  aptitude  for  his 
duties. 

Miss  Samno  was  more  at  ease  in 
her  mind  than  she  had  been  for  a  long 
time.  Since  her  brother  had  had  inter- 
esting and  remunerative  occupation  the 
sullen  look  in  his  face  seemed  to  be 
giving  way  to  a  happier  expression;  but 
her  serenity  was  much  disturbed  by  an 
incident  which  took  place  when  he  had 
been  in  the  bank  between  two  and  three 
months.  Something  had  happened  to 
annoy  the  elder  Samno.  During  the 
first  part  of  dinner  he  was  not  only 
silent,  but  from  the  expression  of  his 
face  it  was  plain  that  he  was  in  a  very 
irritable  frame  of  mind. 

Presently  he  said  to  his  son,  "  What 
24 


The  Teller 


are  you  doing  with  your  salary  in  the 
bank — spending  it  ?  " 

"  I  have  bought  some  things  for 
myself,"  said  the  boy,  "  some  trousers 
and  neckties,  and  so  on." 

"How  about  the  balance  of  it?" 
asked  his  father.  "  How  much  have 
you  drawn  ?  " 

"  Forty  dollars,"  said  the  lad. 

"  What  have  you  done  with  the  rest 
of  it  ?  "  demanded  the  old  man. 

"  I  have  spent  it  for  things,"  said  the 
boy. 

"What  is  your  salary?"  asked  the 
father. 

"  Two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars,"  re- 
plied the  boy. 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  old  man.     "  I 

conclude  that  you  are  intending  to  get 

rid  of  it  for  one  thing  and  another  as 

fast   as  you  earn   it.     I  consider  that 

3  25 


The  Teller 


fifty  dollars  a  year  is  quite  as  much 
money  as  you  ought  to  spend  over  and 
above  your  board,  which  costs  you 
nothing,  and  I  shall  instruct  the  cashier 
not  to  allow  you  to  draw  more  than 
that  amount ;  the  balance,"  he  added, 
"  I  will  take  charge  of  for  you." 

The  boy's  face  turned  purple.  He 
got  up  and  left  the  table  and  the  room 
without  a  word.  Helen  rose  also.  Her 
father  looked  up  at  her.  For  the  first 
time  in  her  life  she  faced  him  with  her 
face  flaming  with  anger,  but  she  also 
left  the  room  without  speaking. 


26 


VI 

TROUBLE  for  the  teller  began  in  De- 
cember. One  night  his  cash  was  short 
for  five  dollars,  and  his  efforts  to  dis- 
cover the  error  were  unavailing.  A  few 
nights  after  another  shortage  occurred 
of  the  same  amount.  For  a  few  days 
there  was  no  further  trouble,  and  then 
another  deficiency  occurred.  And  so 
it  went  on  until  the  result  was  as  related 
in  the  first  chapter.  "Yes,"  said  the 
teller  that  night,  "  I  must  have  this 
thing  out  with  the  cashier  in  the  morn- 
ing. It  can't  go  any  further."  But  the 
cashier  was  late  the  next  morning.  There 
was  no  available  interval  in  the  morn- 
ing's work,  and  no  opportunity  to  make 
27 


The  Teller 


the  intended  disclosure.  While  the  teller 
was  counting  up  his  cash  after  the  close, 
he  heard  the  cashier's  bell,  and  a  moment 
after  a  clerk  said  to  him,  "  Mr.  Nollis 
wants  to  speak  to  you." 

"  I  stayed  down  this  noon,"  he  said 
to  the  teller,  turning  his  chair  and 
resting  his  arm  upon  his  desk,  "  and 
it  occurred  to  me  to  look  over  the 
cash  items.  There  was  one  on  your 
book  for  a  hundred  and  ninety -two 
dollars  which  I  did  not  find.  What 
is  it?" 

The  teller's  face  flushed,  and  his 
hand  shook  a  little  as  he  produced  a 
slip  with  a  list  of  figures  and  dates. 
"  I  intended  to  speak  to  you  about 
it  this  very  day,"  he  said. 

"  What  is  this  ?  "  said  the  cashier,  as 
he  ran  his  eye  down  the  column  to  the 
footing — " shortages  in  the  cash?"  he 
28 


The  Teller 


asked,  laying  his  hand  flat  down  upon 
the  paper. 

-Yes,  sir." 

"  H'm,"  said  the  cashier,  looking  at 
the  slip  again,  "  going  back  to  Decem- 
ber." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

-Why  haven't  I  been  told  of  this 
before  ?  "  he  demanded,  looking  sharply 
up  over  his  glasses. 

-Well,  sir,"  said  the  teller,  "it  has 
been  a  question  with  me  of  the  time 
when  to  speak  to  you.  I  have  been 
at  my  wit's  end  over  the  matter.  All 
the  time  the  shortages  have  been  fol- 
lowing each  other  there  have  been  in- 
tervals of  a  week  sometimes,  and  I 
would  fancy  that  whatever  was  wrong 
had  perhaps  come  to  an  end,  and " 

The  cashier  shook  his  head.  "  It 
should  have  been  reported  to  me,"  he 
29 


The  Teller 


said,  "  the  moment  you  determined  that 
there  was  something  beyond  mere  error 
at  work." 

"  But,"  urged  the  teller,  "  it  took  me 
a  long  time  to  come  to  that  suspicion, 
and  even  now " 

The  cashier  stopped  him  with  an 
interposing  gesture.  "The  fact  should 
have  been  reported  to  me,"  he  said. 
"You  would  at  least  have  relieved  your- 
self of  the  responsibility  which  you 
have  chosen — I  don't  understand  why — 
to  assume.  As  it  is,"  he  added,  "  I  must 
ask  you  to  make  the  shortage  good,  and 
in  future  I  shall  expect  to  be  notified  at 
once  of  anything  out  of  the  common." 

"Very  well,  sir,"  said  the  teller, 
clinching  his  hands  very  tight.  "  See- 
ing that  I  am  to  stand  the  loss,  need 
the  matter  be  mentioned  outside  of 
ourselves  ?  " 

30 


The  Teller 


The  cashier  looked  sharply  at  him 
for  the  second  time.  "  I  don't  know," 
he  said,  and  for  a  while  he  tapped 
the  blotting-pad  softly  with  his  glasses. 
"I  think,"  he  said  at  last,  "  that  I 
must  speak  of  it  to  the  president, 
but  I  will  mention  your  wish  that  it 
be  kept  quiet,  though,"  he  added,  "  I 
do  not  at  the  moment  see  why  it 
should  be." 

"There  are  a  number  of  reasons," 
declared  the  teller,  "  one  of  which  is 
that  to  let  it  get  out  will  be  to  give 
warning.  Do  you  think  that  I  took 
the  money  ?  "  he  asked  impulsively  after 
a  moment. 

"  No,"  said  the  cashier  rather  coldly, 
"  I  do  not.  But  for  reasons  of  your 
own  you  have  kept  the  fact  from  me 
that  some  one  in  the  office  has  been  pil- 
fering, and  I  am  bound  to  let  Mr.  Hal- 
Si 


The  Teller 


cott  know  all  the  facts,  that  he  may  take 
such  measures  as  he  sees  fit." 

"  I  should  have  told  you  this  very 
day,"  urged  the  teller. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  cashier  dryly,  put- 
ting on  his  glasses  and  taking  up  a  pen, 
"  but  you  didn't,  you  know,  until  I  had 
found  out  something  was  wrong  my- 
self." The  teller  saw  a  great  light. 

The  next  day  he  kept  a  sheet  of 
ledger-paper  on  his  counter,  and  set 
down  in  the  right-hand  column  every 
amount  of  actual  cash  received,  enter- 
ing in  the  other  column  every  cash  pay- 
ment. The  sum  of  the  right-hand  col- 
umn added  to  the  amount  of  cash  with 
which  he  began  in  the  morning  less  the 
total  of  the  left-hand  column  would 
show  him  at  any  hour  of  the  day  what 
money  he  should  have  on  hand  ;  and  by 
keeping  the  currency  well  counted  up 
32 


The  Teller 


and  strapped,  except  the  loose  cash  in 
the  drawer,  he  could  balance  his  cash  at 
almost  any  time  in  the  day  when  he  had 
a  few  minutes  of  time.* 

Things  went  on  smoothly  for  a 
time,  and  no  one  seemed  to  notice 
that  the  teller  was  doing  anything 
out  of  the  common.  He  accounted 
plausibly  for  bringing  his  luncheon 
instead  of  going  out  for  it.  It  was 
the  custom  for  all  the  employees  ex- 
cept the  teller  and  one  clerk  to  go 
to  their  noon  meal  at  twelve  o'clock, 
returning  at  one. 

It  was  between  these  hours  some 
ten  days  later.  There  were  no  custom- 
ers in  the  office.  The  morning's  busi- 
ness had  been  light.  Charley  Samno 


*  I  believe  that  this  is  now  the  general  practice, 
but  at  the  time  of  which  I  anvwriting  it  had  not  been 
done  in  the  banks  of  Chesterton. 

33 


The  Teller 


was  at  a  desk  around  a  corner  from  the 
teller's  counter,  making  entries  in  the 
foreign  register.  The  teller  counted  his 
cash  and  found  it  right.  He  went  out 
into  the  front  room  and  sat  down  for  a 
few  minutes  with  the  New  York  paper. 
A  man  came  in  with  a  check  for  a  hun- 
dred dollars,  asking  for  large  bills.  The 
teller  gave  him  two  fifty-dollar  notes, 
and  almost  mechanically  ran  over  the 
loose  currency  in  the  drawer.  He 
looked  at  the  slip  upon  which  he  had 
just  made  up  the  cash.  The  loose  cur- 
rency was  one  hundred  and  five  dollars 
less  than  when  he  had  counted  it.  With 
a  quick-beating  heart  and  hands  that 
trembled  somewhat  he  counted  all  the 
money  again.  It  was  five  dollars 
"short."  I  could  devote  considerable 
space  to  the  relation  of  some  of  the 
thoughts  and  reflections  which  passed 
34 


The  Teller 


through  our  friend's  mind  in  the  next 
five  minutes,  and  I  think  it  natural  that 
among  them  should  have  been  that  he 
himself  was  under  censure  if  not  suspi- 
cion, and  that  he  had  been  mulcted  of 
nearly  two  hundred  dollars,  a  grievous 
sum  to  a  man  on  a  salary,  and  repre- 
senting—lots of  things  !  He  went  past 
the  corner  of  the  counter  and  perched 
himself  upon  a  high  stool. 

"  I  say,  Charley,"  he  said — the  boy 
looked  up  inquiringly — "  could  you  let 
me  have  five  dollars  for  a  while  ?  " 

The  boy's  mouth  twitched,  and  he 
changed  color  a  little.  "  What  do  you 
mean?"  he  said. 

"  I'm  hard  up,"  said  the  teller,  "and 
thought  maybe  you  could  let  me  have 
a  five-dollar  note  for  a  while." 

"  I  guess,"  said  the  boy  sullenly,  as 
he  turned  his  face  and  made  as  if  to 

35 


The  Teller 


look  up  a  page  in  the  register  index, 
"  that  it  would  be  more  like  business  if 
I  asked  you  to  lend  me  five  dollars.  I'd 
like  to  see  a  five-dollar  bill  in  my  pocket- 
book,"  he  added. 

"  Can't  let  me  have  it,  then  ?" 

"  Can't  give  you  what  I  haven't  got," 
asserted  the  boy  doggedly. 

The  teller  looked  at  the  clock.  It 
was  five  minutes  of  one.  He  looked  at 
the  boy,  whose  face  was  turned  down 
sideways  as  he  made  an  entry  on  the 
register.  "  Charley,"  he  said,  "  I  have 
been  thinking  for  some  time  that  a  bank 
isn't  a  good  place  for  a  young  fellow 
like  you.  I  don't  think  you  will  ever 
do  yourself  justice,  and  if  I  were  you  I 
wouldn't  stay  here.  I  should  think  now 
that  your  father's  business " 

The  door  opened,  and  in  came  one 
of  the  bookkeepers  and  the  discount 
36 


The  Teller 


clerk.     Charley  got  down  off  the  stool 
and  made  a  step  toward  his  hat. 

"  Think  of  what  I  have  said,"  urged 
the  teller  quickly  in  a  low  voice  ;  "  it's 
good  advice." 


37 


VII 

Miss  SAMNO  rose  from  her  chair 
with  an  air  that  indicated  a  wish  to  bring 
the  interview  to  an  end.  "  You  have 
said  nothing,"  she  declared,  "  to  change 
my  opinion.  I  don't  suppose  you  as- 
saulted my  brother,  and  perhaps  you 
didn't  actually  abuse  him,  but  something 
you  have  said  or  done,  or  both,  drove 
him  out  of  the  bank,  and  it  must  have 
been  something  pretty  bad,  for  when 
my  father  threatened  to  send  him  off  to 
Saginaw  to  work  in  his  lumber  mill  as 
a  common  laborer  unless  he  went  back 
to  the  bank  he  actually  seemed  relieved 
at  the  idea." 

The  teller  stood  for  a  moment  star- 
38 


The  Teller 


ing  at  the  pattern  of  the  carpet.  "  I 
am  very  sorry,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  which 
proved  his  words.  "  I  can  say  no  more 
than  I  have." 

"  Which  has  been  simply  nothing  at 
all,"  declared  the  young  woman,  turning 
her  back. 

"  Good  night,"  said  the  teller. 

"Good  night,"  she  said  over  her 
shoulder. 

"  I'm  sorry,  my  dear  fellow,"  said 
Mr.  Nollis  some  days  later,  "  and  so  is 
the  president,  but  Mr.  Samno  insisted 
upon  it.  We  said  what  we  could,  but 
he  would  hear  nothing,  and  finally  as 
good  as  threatened  Mr.  Halcott  to  turn 
him  out  of  office  at  the  next  election 
unless  you  were  discharged." 

"  That  teller  chap  up  at  the  bank 
won't  bully  no  more  young  boys  out  of 

39 


The  Teller 


their  places,"  remarked  Mr.  Samno  to 
his  daughter. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  she  asked. 

"I  mean,"  he  said,  "that  I  made 
Halcott  give  him  the  sack." 


40 


VIII 

THE  next  time  Helen  Samno  saw 
the  teller  (the  ex-teller  now)  he  was  in 
overalls,  helping  to  load  a  dray  with 
nail-kegs.  She  was  in  a  carriage.  He 
looked  up  and  caught  her  glance,  and 
instantly  turned  away.  Once  again 
they  met  in  the  street.  This  time  he 
looked  her  full  in  the  face,  and  she  gave 
no  sign  of  recognition. 

Life  had  changed  very  much  for  the 
ex-teller,  and  he  took  it  harder  perhaps 
than  he  need  have  done.  As  his  story 
got  about,  there  were  a  good  many  of 
his  friends  who  thought  he  had  been  ill- 
used,  and  made  kindly  advances ;  but 
his  pride  had  been  cruelly  hurt,  and  if 
4  41 


The  Teller 


he  did  not  repel  them  he  neglected 
them,  which  in  the  long  run  comes  to 
the  same  thing ;  and,  indeed,  with  an 
income  just  above  poverty,  and  daily 
fatigue  which  sent  him  to  sleep  at  nine 
o'clock,  society  was  rather  out  of  the 
question.  But  the  worst  was  to  come. 
His  mother  was  his  chief  resource  and 
consolation.  She  believed  in  him  with- 
out a  misgiving.  The  changes  in  their 
way  of  living  which  his  diminished  in- 
come necessitated  were  hard  to  her  only 
as  they  affected  him.  All  that  had  ever 
passed  between  them  regarding  his  dis- 
missal from  the  bank  was  his  account  of 
the  affair,  her  one  question  whether  he 
felt  that  he  had  done  anything  unworthy 
of  himself,  and  his  reply  in  the  negative. 
She  put  her  arms  about  his  neck  and 
kissed  him,  and  that  was  all.  And  yet 
it  all  weighed  upon  her,  and  though 
42 


The  Teller 


her  face  was  ever  cheerful  to  him,  she 
brooded  over  it.  She  had  never  been 
strong  since  the  death  of  her  husband, 
and  in  a  little  more  than  a  year  after  his 
misfortune  the  ex-teller  was  alone  in  the 
world. 

It  was  a  day  in  December  of  the 
second  year  following  the  opening  of 
this  story.  When  the  ex-teller  came 
back  from  his  noonday  meal  the  book- 
keeper of  Kegbar  &  Co.  handed  him  an 
envelope  directed  to  him.  It  contained 
merely  a  request  that  he  call  at  the 
writer's  house  that  evening  if  conve- 
nient, and  was  signed,  "  Yours  truly, 
Alfred  Samno." 

He  tore  the  note  into  pieces  and 
threw  it  on  the  floor,  but  after  supper 
he  found  himself  dressing  in  the  best  of 
what  were  left  of  his  old  clothes  (they 
were  shabbier  than  they  need  to  have 
43 


The  Teller 


been,  for  he  had  become  careless  of  his 
dress),  and  trying  to  put  his  hands  in 
sightly  condition.  He  looked  at  them 
grimly  when  he  had  done  his  utmost. 
They  did  not  look  much  like  the  teller's 
hands.  He  was  shown  into  the  library. 
A  fire  of  cannel  was  blazing  and  sput- 
tering in  the  grate,  in  front  of  which 
were  two  leather  chairs.  A  small  table 
stood  between  them,  on  which  was  a 
box  of  cigars,  an  ash-tray,  and  matches. 
The  farther  chair  was  occupied  by 
Mr.  Samno.  He  rose  and  put  out  his 
hand  (an  honor  which  our  friend  would 
have  liked  to  decline)  with  a  "Good 
evening." 

"  Good   evening,  sir,"  said  the   ex- 
teller. 

"Will  you  take  that  chair,"  said  Mr. 
Samno,  "and  will  you  have  a  cigar?" 
as  the  young  man  seated  himself. 
44 


The  Teller 


"  Thank  you,  no,"  said  the  latter. 
He  was  not  then  prepared  to  accept 
any  hospitality  at  Mr.  Samno's  hands. 

Mr.  Samno  looked  into  the  fire  for 
a  moment  or  two.  It  appeared  as  if  he 
were  a  little  at  loss  how  or  where  to  be- 
gin. The  young  man  looked  up  at  him 
once  and  then  gave  his  attention  to  the 
leaping  blaze.  Presently,  without  any 
preface,  the  older  man  said,  "  You're 
clerking  it  for  Kegbar  &  Co.,  ain't 
you?" 

"Yes." 

"  What  are  you  getting  ?" 

"  Forty  dollars  a  month." 

"  Been  there  ever  since  you  left 
the  bank?" 

"  Ever  since  I  was  turned  out  of 
the  bank,"  replied  the  young  man, 
"  except  the  month  it  took  me  to  find 
the  place." 

45 


The  Teller 


"  H'm,"  said  the  other,  twisting  his 
long  upper  lip  from  side  to  side. 
"  How  much  was  that  shortage  you 
made  up  ?  " 

"A  hundred  and  ninety-seven  dol- 
lars." 

The  old  man  took  out  a  memo- 
randum-book. "One  ninety-two  they 
told  me,"  he  said,  turning  to  the  ex- 
teller. 

"  There  was  another  deficit  of  five 
dollars,"  said  the  latter,  "  later  on." 

"That  was  the  last  day  my  son  was 
at  the  bank,  wasn't  it  ? "  asked  the  old 
man,  staring  straight  in  front  of  him. 

"  Yes." 

Mr.  Samno  took  a  pencil  out  of  his 
pocket  and  made  a  calculation  in  his 
memorandum-book.  Then  he  rose  and 
went  over  to  a  desk,  and  presently  came 
back  with  a  slip  of  paper  in  his  hand, 
46 


The  Teller 


which  he  folded  twice  and  laid  upon 
the  table. 

"  Something  has  come  to  my  knowl- 
edge lately,"  he  said,  after  a  moment  or 
so,  "  and  whether,  as  far  as  I'm  person- 
ally concerned,  I'm  glad  or  sorry  I  didn't 
know  it  before  I  don't  know.  One 
thing  I  will  say,  that  as  far  as  you  are 
concerned  I'm  sorry.-  I've  done  a  little 
figuring,"  he  added,  fingering  the  folded 
slip  with  his  left  hand,  "  and  so  far  as 
the  cash  part  of  the  business  goes,  I 
think  those  figures  are  pretty  near 
right,"  and  he  offered  the  paper  to  the 
young  man.  "  Look  at  it,  please,"  he 
said. 

Our  friend  took  the  paper  mechan- 
ically and  unfolded  it.  It  was  a  check 
for  sixteen  hundred  and  twenty  dollars. 

"  What  does  this  mean  ?"  he  asked, 
looking  blankly  at  Mr.  Samno. 

47 


The  Teller 


"  It  means,"  said  the  latter,  "  that  I 
owe  you  sixteen  hundred  and  twenty 
dollars :  the  money  you  made  good  to 
the  bank ;  the  difference  between  what 
you've  earned  and  what  you  would 
have  earned ;  and  interest,  as  near  as  I 
can  figure  it  now,  on  the  whole  thing." 

The  young  fellow  sprang  to  his  feet 
with  his  face  in  a  flame.  "  Is  it  for 
this,"  he  cried,  "that  you  have  asked 
me  to  come  here  to-night  ?  To  pay 
me  back  dollar  for  dollar  the  mere 
money  involved  in  what  has  ruined  my 
life,  and  what  I  believe  shortened  my 
mother's.  You  turned  me  into  the 
street — with  a  stigma  upon  my  charac- 
ter which  will  go  to  the  grave  with 
me — to  find  what  drudgery  I  could  to 
keep  me  from  starvation,  you  separated 
me  from  every  friend  I  had  in  the 
world,  and  you  offer  me  what  you  say 


The  Teller 


you  have  *  figured  up  '  as  my  loss.  If 
money  could  make  it  all  good  to  me, 
and  the  amount  were  ten  times — a  hun- 
dred times — as  much,  I  would  not  write 
my  name  on  the  back  of  your  check," 
and  the  ex-teller  tore  the  folded  paper 
in  half,  threw  it  into  the  fire,  and 
pushed  his  chair  on  one  side  to  make 
way  for  leaving  the  room. 

The  tall  old  man  rose  and  raised  his 
hand.  "  Wait,"  he  said,  and  there  was 
that  in  his  manner  which  checked  the 
younger  man's  impetuosity,  "wait,  and 
hear  me  out.  You  have  been  badly 
treated,  I  allow.  You  have  had  a  hard 
time  of  it.  What  you  say  is  a  good 
deal  true.  I  done  wrong,  and  I'm 
sorry  for  't.  I  want  to  make  it  up  to 
you  far's  I  can.  I'm  an  old  man, 
and  I  know  some  folks  think  I'm 
a  pretty  hard  one.  Don't  you  be 

49 


The  Teller 


harder'n  I  am  ;  and  remember  that  if 
you  hadn't  kept  things  to  yourself  the 
way  you  did  you  needn't  have  lost  your 
place.  But  I  ain't  throwing  that  up  to 
you — I'm  the  last  man  in  the  world 
now  to  do  that.  If  I'd  known  then 
what  I  know  now,  I  don't  know  what 
would  have  happened.  As  it  is,  my 
boy  and  I  are  on  good  terms,  and, 
please  God,  we're  going  to  stay  so. 
He  thought  I  was  hard  on  him,  and  I 
can  see  now  that  I  was.  I've  suffered 
some  over  this  business — more'n  you'd 
think  perhaps ;  but  you  wa'n't  to  blame, 
and  I  was,  mostly.  You've  suffered  a 
good  deal.  I've  said  I  wanted  to  make 
it  right,  and  it  seemed  to  me  I  ought  to 
begin  with  the  money  end.  I  couldn't 
make  it  less  than  what  you  was  out,  but 
I  couldn't  offer  you  more,  could  I  ? — 
not  in  money?  You  say,"  he  con- 

50 


The  Teller 


tinued, — "sit  down,  won't  you — that 
I've  ruined  your  life.  Well,  I  can't 
give  you  back  the  last  eighteen  months, 
but  at  your  age  lives  ain't  ruined  as 
easy  as  you  think.  You  say  you  got  a 
smirch  that  you'll  carry  to  your  grave : 
well,  Alfred  Samno's  word  goes  for 
something  in  this  community,  and 
you're  going  to  have  it  at  all  times.  I 
will  tell  you,  for  one  thing,  that  I  got 
the  directors  of  the  bank  together  to- 
day and  set  you  straight  there.  I  told 
them  that  I'd  been  responsible  for  your 
dismissal,  and  that  I  was  wrong  and 
sorry,  and  that  if  any  of  them  had 
heard  of  anything  to  your  discredit  I'd 
be  answerable  that  it  wasn't  so.  I 
didn't  go  into  details  why  I  brought 
the  matter  up,  and  I  don't  know  what 
they  thought,  but  I've  put  you  straight." 
The  speaker  was  silent  for  a  moment. 


The  Teller 


"  What  are  your  notions  ? "  he  said  at 
length.  "  You  don't  calculate  to  stay 
with  Kegbar  &  Co.  always,  I  reckon." 

"  I'm  going  to  Chicago  day  after  to- 
morrow," said  the  young  man.  "An 
old  school  friend  has  offered  me  some 
sort  of  a  chance  out  there,  and  I'm 
going  out  to  look  into  it." 

11  Does  it  take  any  money?"  asked 
Mr.  Samno. 

"I  have  a  little  money  from  my 
mother,"  said  the  ex-teller. 

"  Wouldn't  you  rather  stay  in  Ches- 
terton if  you  could  do  just  as  well  ? " 
asked  the  elder  man. 

"  I  hope  to  turn  my  back  on  Ches- 
terton forever,"  said  the  young  man  bit- 
terly. "  The  place  is  hateful  to  me." 

Mr.  Samno  sat  for  a  minute, 
thoughtfully  opening  and  closing  his 
eye-glasses.  "Well,"  he  said,  "I  ex- 
52 


The  Teller 


pected  to  find  you  pretty  sore,  but 
you're  harder'n  I  thought  you'd  be, 
and  harder'n  I  think  you  ought  to  be. 
I've  admitted  a  good  deal,  and  tried  to 
put  things  right,  but  if  you  can't  meet 
me — I  don't  say  half-way,  but  some  of 
the  way,  I  don't  know  what  I  can  do. 
You  say  you're  going  West  day  after 
to-morrow.  We  won't  talk  any  more 
to-night — I've  had  rather  a  trying  day  ; 
but  suppose  you  come  into  my  office  in 
the  morning.  Maybe  we  can  come  to 
a  better  understanding.  What  do  you 
say?" 

The  young  man  rose  to  depart. 
"Thank  you,"  he  said,  "I  believe  you 
mean  to  be  kind,  but  I  think  every- 
thing has  been  said  between  us.  Un- 
less I  find  things  in  Chicago  different 
from  what  I  expect,  my  plans  are 
made  ;  and  in  any  case  I  do  not  feel 
53 


The  Teller 


that  I  could  accept  anything  at  your 
hands." 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  old  man 
rather  sadly,  rising  from  his  chair,  "  if 
that's  your  last  word."  They  passed 
out  of  the  room  together,  and  saying 
"  Good-night,"  Mr.  Samno  went  up  the 
stairs,  and  our  friend  sought  his  hat  and 
coat  in  the  hall.  As  he  took  the  latter 
from  the  hook,  a  maid  approached  him, 
saying  :  "  Miss  Samno  wants  to  know  if 
you  won't  come  into  the  drawing-room 
a  moment.!' 

He  hung  up  his  coat  again  and  went 
slowly  into  the  drawing-room.  Many 
memories  of  the  familiar  house  were  in 
his  mind,  but  the  evidence  of  his  recol- 
lection of  the  last  time  he  had  met  the 
young  mistress  of  it — when  she  had 
met  his  look  and  passed  him  without 
recognition — was  in  his  face.  She  was 
54 


The  Teller 


sitting  at  the  far  end  of  the  long  room 
in  a  low  chair  placed  sideways  to  the 
fire,  and  apparently  did  not  notice  his 
approach  until  he  stood  opposite  to  her 
at  the  other  side  of  the  hearth.  She 
rose  and  offered  him  her  hand,  which 
he  took  for  an  instant.  There  was  no 

other   greeting.      "  The   maid "   he 

began  after  a  moment. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  coloring  faintly,  "  I 
told  her  to  watch  for  your  going,  and 
if  you  did  not  come  in  here  to  give 
you  the  message.  I  had  some  things 
I  wanted  to  say  to  you,  and  to  ask 
you." 

"Yes?"  he  said,  and  at  her  request 
took  the  chair  at  his  side.  He  sat  with 
his  face  half  turned,  gazing  into  the  fire. 
She  took  in  with  a  glance  his  half- 
shabby  coat  and  trousers,  his  patched 
shoes,  and  the  broken  finger  nails  on 
55 


The  Teller 


the  hand  which  rested  on  the  arm  of 
his  chair. 

"  I  knew  that  my  father  had  asked 
you  to  come  here  to-night,"  she  said 
presently,  "  and,  of  course,  I  knew  why 
he  wished  to  see  you."  The  young 
man's  brows  contracted  for  an  instant, 
but  he  did  not  speak.  She  waited  a 
moment. 

"  Have  you  forgiven  us  ?"  she  asked 
in  a  low  voice. 

"Us?  "he  said. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied, — "  my  father, 
and  brother,  and  me." 

"  I  have  suffered  the  consequences 
of  my  own  folly,"  he  said,  "  as  your 
father  has  pointed  out  to  me  this  eve- 
ning." 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  looking  incredu- 
lously at  him,  "  he  couldn't  have  said 
that!" 

56 


The  Teller 


"  He  did  not  say  it  unkindly,"  said 
the  ex-teller,  "  and  he  only  told  me  what 
I  knew  myself." 

"What  did  he  mean?"  she  asked. 
"What  did  he  say?" 

"Pardon  me,"  he  said.  "It  is  all 
over  and  done  with.  I  don't  wish  to 
be  rude,  but  I  would  rather  not  discuss 
the  matter,"  and  he 'reached  down  and 
picked  up  a  glove  which  had  fallen  to 
the  floor. 

She  thought  he  was  going.  "You 
shall  not  go,"  she  exclaimed,  "  until  you 
have  heard  me.  I  know,"  she  went  on 
quickly,  with  a  nod  of  her  head,  "  what 
your  '  folly ' — as  you  call  it — was,  and 
how  dear  it  cost  you.  I  know  why  my 
brother  left  the  bank.  I  know  how 
your  '  folly '  stood  between  him  and  dis- 
grace, and  from  what  might,  at  the 
time,  have  estranged  him  from  his 

s  57 


The  Teller 


father  perhaps  for  life,  and  ruined  the 
boy ;  for,  though  the  disclosure  has 
been  made,  it  was  under  circumstances 
which  worked  for  pity  and  gentleness 
instead  of  the  unsparing  condemnation 
which  would  have  come  upon  him  at 
the  time.  Your  *  folly '  has  brought  a 
blessing  to  this  house.  I  have  just 
come  back  from  Saginaw,"  she  said, 
after  a  moment's  pause.  Her  com- 
panion looked  up  inquiringly.  "  Yes," 
she  said,  "  I  have  been  there  several 
weeks.  My  brother  had  quite  a  serious 
accident.  Papa  was  away  at  the  time, 
and  I  went  on  alone.  Charley  had 
broken  an  arm  and  injured  his  head. 
When  I  got  there  he  partly  recovered 
consciousness,  but  it  was  several  days 
before  the  doctor  could  give  a  favorable 
opinion.  Somehow  my  first  despatch 
failed  to  reach  papa,  and  he  did  not  get 

58 


The  Teller 


the  news  until  he  returned  here.  By 
that  time  Charley  was  pretty  well  out 
of  danger,  and  there  was  no  special 
reason  for  papa's  coming  to  Saginaw ; 
but  he  did  some  ten  days  later.  When 
my  brother  had  got  well  enough  to  talk 
pretty  freely,  I  noticed  that  he  seemed 
to  be  brooding  over  something,  some- 
thing that  I  thought  he  wanted  to  tell 
me,  but  dreaded  to.  I  have  been  the 
one  person,"  said  the  girl,  "whom  the 
poor  fellow  trusted  and  confided  in, 
and  at  last  I  induced  him  to  tell  what 
was  on  his  mind ;  but  the  thought  of 
his  father's  knowing  it  was  very  dread- 
ful to  him.  Did  papa  tell  you  anything 
of  this  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  No,"  was  the  reply,  "  he  only  spoke 
of  something  having  lately  come  to  his 
knowledge." 

"  Well,"  she  resumed,  "  I  said  to  my 
59 


The  Teller 


brother  that  papa  would  have  to  be  told 
of  it  some  time,  because  great  wrong 
and  injustice  had  been  done,  and  that 
when  he  came  on  would  be  the  best 
time.  'I  don't  think  he  will  be  hard 
with  you/  I  said  to  him,  'seeing  that 
you  are  ill ;  and  he  has  changed  a  good 
deal  since  you  left  home  in  some 
ways/" 

"  Was  he  ?"  said  our  friend. 

"  No,"  said  Helen,  "  he  was  terribly 
shocked  and  grieved,  but  he  was  very 
gentle  with  Charley.  Indeed,  I  never 
saw  him  show  so  much  tenderness,  and 
the  poor  boy's  heart  went  out  to  him,  I 
think  for  the  first  time  in  his  life.  He 
told  me  afterward  that  he  had  never 
once  before  in  his  life  thought  that  his 
father  loved  him."  The  ex-teller  sat 
with  his  eyes  on  the  fire,  slowly  draw- 
ing his  gloves  through  his  left  hand. 
60 


The  Teller 


"Are  you  sorry  that  I  have  told 
you  this  ?"  she  said. 

"  No,"  he  replied  gently,  "  I  am  very 
glad  to  hear  it."  There  was  silence  for 
a  little  space. 

"Will  you  pardon  my  curiosity," 
she  said  presently,  "if  I  ask  you  what 
took  place  between  you  and  my  father 
to-night  ?  " 

"We  had  some  talk  together,"  he 
replied. 

"  Did  you  come  to  any  conclusion  ?" 
she  asked. 

"  No,  not  exactly.  I  had  come  to 
one  before  I  saw  him."  She  looked  up 
inquiringly.  "  I  am  going  to  Chicago 
day  after  to-morrow,"  he  said.  Her 
lips  tightened  quickly  as  she  turned 
away. 

"Did  you  tell  him  so?"  she  asked, 
after  a  moment. 

61 


The  Teller 


"Yes." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"He  asked  if  I  would  not  rather 
stay  here  if  I  could  do  as  well." 

"And  you?"  said  the  girl,  address- 
ing the  fireplace. 

"  I  said  the  place  was  hateful  to  me, 
and  I  hoped  to  be  able  to  leave  it 
forever."  She  lifted  her  handkerchief 
from  her  lap  and  dropped  it  two  or 
three  times. 

"  Did  he  give  you  to  understand 
that  he  wanted  to  try  to  make  up  to 
you  what  you  had  lost,  and  as  far  as 
possible  something  of  what  you  have 
undergone  ?  " 

"  He  offered  me  his  check  for  six- 
teen hundred  dollars,"  said  the  ex-teller, 
looking  at  a  patch  on  his  left  shoe, 
"and  said  I  should  always  have  his 
good  word." 

62 


The  Teller 


"  A-a-h  ! "  exclaimed  the  young  wom- 
an with  a  frown.  "  Do  you  mean  to 
say  that  that  was  all  ? "  she  demanded, 
looking  squarely  at  him. 

"  He  asked  me  to  come  to  his  office 
in  the  morning,"  was  his  reply. 

"  I  know,  of  course,  that  you  de- 
clined," she  said  with  a  little  asperity, 
"  but  I  should  like  to  know  what  you 
said." 

"  I  told  him,"  said  the  ex-teller, 
"that  I  did  not  feel  that  I  could  accept 
anything  at  his  hands." 

She  turned  to  him  with  an  expres- 
sion that  was  half  indignant.  His  head 
was  bent,  and  he  was  softly  tapping  the 
palm  of  his  left  hand  with  the  fingers  of 
his  gloves.  The  new  nail  on  his  right 
thumb  was  only  half  grown.  She  bit 
her  lip  and  turned  her  face.  "  I  am 
very  sorry,"  she  said  gently  and  sadly. 

63 


The  Teller 


"  My  father  is  greatly  softened  in  many 
ways.  He  has  taken  this  matter  very 
deeply  to  heart.  He  is  grateful  to  you, 
and  he  feels  very  keenly  that  he  wrong- 
fully caused  you  great  hardship  and  dis- 
tress. He  is  an  old  man.  It  would  be 
only  kind  and  generous  of  you  to  let 
him  make  what  reparation  is  in  his 
power.  And  I,"  she  said — "  I  fully 
share  his  feeling,  and " 

"  Do  you  remember,"  said  the  ex- 
teller  deliberately,  "the  last  time  you 
met  me  in  the  street  ?  " 

She  turned  toward  him.  "Oh," 
she  exclaimed,  her  eyes  filling  with 
tears,  "how  unkind  that  is!  How  you 
have  changed  ! " 

The  ex-teller's  heart  melted  within 
him.     "Oh,    Miss    Helen,"    he    cried, 
"  please  forgive  me.     Please  let  me  re- 
call that.     Please  say  you  forgive  me." 
64 


The  Teller 


"  Yes,"  she  said.  "  I  hoped  you  had 
forgotten  that,"  she  added,  after  a  mo- 
ment. "  It  was  such  a  little  thing  com- 
pared with  all  the  rest — but  I  have  been 
so  sorry." 

"  A  little  thing  ! "  he  exclaimed  ;  "  it 
was  more  than  all  the  rest.  Can't  you 
understand  ?  The  rest  was  hard  enough, 
God  knows,"  he  went  on  vehemently, 
"  but  to  feel  that  you,  you  who  had 
known  me  so  well,  you  whom  I  had 
loved  so  dearly,  could  judge  me  as  you 
did — oh,  that  was  the  worst  of  all. 
Don't  you  see  why  I  can  now  take 
nothing  from  your  father  ?  Don't  you 
understand " 

"  Don't !  don't ! "  she  protested.  "  I 
understand  it  all  now  —  everything." 
She  pressed  her  handkerchief  upon  her 
face  for  a  moment  with  both  hands,  and 
then  put  one  of  them  on  the  arm  of  her 
65 


The  Teller 


chair.  He  knelt  and  took  it  in  his  own. 
The  warm,  soft  fingers  closed  round  his 
scarred  and  hardened  ones.  He  bent 
his  face  and  pressed  his  lips  upon  it,  and 
then  it  was  softly  withdrawn,  and  laid 
upon  his  neck. 

"  Bless  my  heart ! "  said  the  ex-teller, 
as  a  single  stroke  sounded  from  the 
mantel  clock,  "  I  suppose  I  ought 
to  go." 

"  You  may  stay  fifteen  minutes 
more,  for  this  once"  said  Miss  Samno, 
"you  haven't  been  here  in  such  a  long 
time."  Fifteen  minutes  later  she  went 
to  the  door  with  him  :  he  required  as- 
sistance with  his  coat.  When  it  was 
properly  on,  "  Oh,  by  the  way,"  she  said, 
"when  are  you  going  to  Chicago  ?" 

"  Whenever  you  say,"  said  the  ex- 
teller. 


66 


IX 

IN  the  upper  right-hand  corner  of 
Samno  &  Co.'s  letter-heads  is  printed 
the  name  of  the  ex-teller  of  the  Frank- 
lin Bank. 

Query  :  After  all,  did  the  teller  do 
right  ? 


67 


THE  LETTERS  OF 
EDWARD   NOYES  WESTCOTT 

EDITED   BY 

MARGARET  WESTCOTT  MUZZEY 


E.  N.  Westcott. 

From  a  photograph  taken  in  1875. 


THE    LETTERS    OF 
EDWARD    NOYES   WESTCOTT 

THE  following  extracts  are  from  let- 
ters written  by  Mr.  Westcott  to  his 
daughter  and  others. 

David  Harum  was  partially  written 
during  the  summer  of  1895  while  Mr. 
Westcott  was  at  Meacham  Lake,  in  the 
Adirondacks.  On  his  return  he  said 
nothing  in  regard  to  his  book  to  any 
member  of  his  family,  and  it  was  some 
time  later  that  I  heard  of  it  from  a 
friend  to  whom  my  brother  had  read 
some  of  the  chapters  as  they  were  com- 
pleted. In  the  summer  of  1896  I  asked 
my  brother  to  allow  me  to  read  what 
he  had  written,  and  he  gave  me  the 


The  Teller 


first  typewritten  MS.  His  daughter, 
having  heard  of  his  work  in  the  same 
manner,  begged  him  to  tell  her  about 
it.  The  following  letters  will  show  that 
it  was  not  Mr.  Westcott's  intention  to 
tell  her  anything  about  the  book  until 
it  had  been  accepted  for  publication, 
which  was  a  very  indefinite  contingency 
in  his  opinion. 


"Aug.itfh,  '96. 

"  So  far  as  the  book  that wrote 

you  of — well,  I  fancy,  the  less  said  the 
better.  It  isn't  a  book  yet,  and  I  have 
not  the  smallest  expectation  that  it  ever 
will  be.  The  work  has  filled  up  a  good 
many  hours  which  would  otherwise  have 
been  very  dreary,  and  given  me  some 
amusement ;  but  that's  about  all  there 
is  to  be  said  about  it." 
72 


Letters 


"  Sept.  29th,  '96. 

"  I  sent  a  bundle  of  MS.  to  

yesterday.  I  wrote,  telling  briefly  what 
the  idea  of  the  story  was,  and  they  re- 
plied that  the  market  for  fiction  at 
the  present  time  was  so  depressed  that 
they  were  not  planning  for  much  of  any 
addition  to  that  line,  but  if  I  would 
send  MS.  on  they  would  give  it  care- 
ful attention  at  once.  I  have  not  really 
the  smallest  expectation  that  anything 
will  result  except  the  return  of  the 
MS.  in  about  two  months  or  more, 
but  I  thought  the  experiment  was 
worth  trying." 


"  Oct.  22dt  '96. 

"  You  mustn't  have  any  expectation 
about  the  book.  I  have  none.  The 
publishing  house  of wrote  that  the 

'6  73 


The  Teller 


market  for  fiction  was  dull  beyond 
measure  and  overloaded  with  books, 
which  meant  to  me  that  unless  my 
MS.  was  something  very  unusual  in- 
deed (which  I  didn't  in  the  least  think) 
they  would  not  publish  it.  It  is  liable, 
I  am  sure — likely,  I  should  say — sure 
to,  in  fact,  come  back  to  me  any 
time  now." 

050 

"  Nov.  gtht  1896. 

11 '  Nothing/  says  the  proverb,  '  is 
certain  to  happen  but  the  unexpected ' ; 
but  I  can  at  least  show  an  exception. 

Messrs. did  not  see  their  way  to 

enrich  their  exchequer  and  illuminate 
their  catalogue  with  my  book,  and  it 
came  back  to  me  in  less  time  than  I 
expected.  I  did,  however,  get  from 
them  what  I  have  reason  to  believe  was 
rather  an  unusual  expression. 

74 


Letters 

"  Usually  when  MS.  is  returned  it 
is  accompanied  by  a  printed  slip — a 
form — expressing  thanks  for  the  oppor- 
tunity of  examining  the  MS.,  and  stat- 
ing that  it  is  regretted  that  the  same  is 
not  available,  etc.,  etc.  They  wrote  me 
before  I  sent  the  stuff  that  in  view  of 
the  condition  of  the  market  they  had 
not  intended  to  make  much  addition  to 
their  line  in  the  way  of  fiction,  and 
when  they  returned  the  MS.  they 
wrote  me  as  follows  : 

"  *  We  have  given  the  MS.  careful 
consideration  and  have  secured  con- 
cerning it  the  counsel  of  an  experi- 
enced literary  adviser.  His  report  is, 
in  accordance  with  our  preliminary  im- 
pression, to  the  effect  that  the  story 
is  rather  distinctive  in  its  purpose  and 
characterization,  and  is  also  well  writ- 
ten. We  regret,  notwithstanding,  to 
75 


The  Teller 


decide  that,  in  connection  with  the 
present  exceptionally  depressed  and 
overcrowded  condition  of  the  market 
for  fiction,  David  Harum  (the  name  they 
gave  it  themselves,  by  the  way)  is  not 
sufficiently  assured  of  an  extended  or 
remunerative  sale  to  make  its  publica- 
tion a  desirable  undertaking  considered 
from  a  business  point  of  view.  It  is 
very  possible  that  in  this  conclusion  we 
are  in  error,  and  we  shall  be  pleased  to 
learn  that  with  the  imprint  of  some 
other  house  the  story  has  secured  for 
itself  a  satisfactory  success.  Yours  very 
truly,  etc.,  etc.  .  .  .' 

"I  thought  at  the  time  the  letter 
was  an  unusual  one,  and  have  since  been 
told  by  some  people  who  are  familiar 
with  the  ways  and  methods  of  publish- 
ers that  it  was  very  unusual  indeed. 
Nevertheless,  I  have  done  nothing  fur- 
76 


Letters 


ther.  I  think  I  will  not  press  further 
at  present  upon  a  depressed  and  over- 
crowded market.  I  should  never  have 
made  any  move  if  it  had  not  been  for 
the  opinion  of  other  people.  By  the 
time  I  had  typewritten  it  the  second 
time  I  was  so  sick  of  the  stuff  that  I 
could  smell  it  when  I  opened  the  front 
door.  You  may  imagine  that  it  might 
be  so  when  I  tell  you  that  there  are  560 
pages  nearly  or  quite  two  thirds  as  large 
as  this  sheet  and  covering  about  140,000 
words.  I  am  writing  so  much  because 
you  heard  about  the  thing  some  way 
and  expressed  so  much  interest  in  the 
matter.  I  didn't  tell  you  of  it,  did  I  ?  " 


The  following  is  an  extract  from  a 
letter  sent  by  another  publishing  house 
to  which  David  Harum  was  submitted. 

77 


The  Teller 


Their  excuse  for  rejecting  the  MS.  is 
amusing,  in  view  of  the  fact  that  the 
MS.  was  typewritten  carefully  and  pro- 
nounced by  D.  Appleton  and  Co.  to 
be  one  of  the  clearest  and  best  MSS. 
ever  submitted  to  their  criticism. 

"We  had  the  manuscript  very  cas- 
ually looked  into  by  one  of  our  '  read- 
ers,' who  read  only  a  few  chapters  (for 
the  handwriting  was  not  very  easily  de- 
cipherable); but  not  feeling  at  liberty  to 
give  it  a  real  examination  under  the  cir- 
cumstances, we  wrote  you,  in  returning 
it  on  July  i8th,  saying  that  on  a  slight 
examination  at  the  hands  of  a  special 
'reader'  he  had  reported  somewhat 
favorably  upon  it,  and  we  added  that 
before  replying  definitely  with  regard  to 
publication  we  should  consider  it  neces- 
sary to  obtain  other  reports."  (It  is 

78 


Letters 

perhaps  just  to  say  in  connection  with 
this  matter  that  the  MS.  was  sent  to 
this  publishing  house  with  the  request 
that  it  be  read  immediately,  and  if  not 
acceptable  returned  without  delay.)  In 
further  explanation  they  say  :  "  We  do 
not  think  that  if  we  had  been  allowed 
time  to  really  and  carefully  examine  the 
work  it  would  ever  have  been  declined 
by  us,  and  we  are  extremely  sorry  that 
you  felt  it  necessary  to  recall  it  so  sud- 
denly and  peremptorily.  Of  course  we 
see  now  that  it  was  unfortunate  for  us 
to  lose  the  book,  as  we  greatly  admire 
it  as  published  by  Appleton,  and  are 
well  aware  from  our  own  experience 
that  it  is  selling  very  largely. 

"Yours  very  truly,  etc.,  etc." 

After  the   MS.  had   been  returned 
several  times  I  once  asked  Mr.  Westcott 

79 


The  Teller 


what  he  had  done  with  his  book.  He 
replied,  "  I  have  thrown  it  up  on  the 
shelf  in  my  closet,  and  there  I  mean  to 
leave  it."  He  was  utterly  disheartened 
in  regard  to  it,  and  "  down  on  his  luck  " 
as  to  all  the  things,  business  and  other, 
in  which  he  was  interested.  He  would 
often  say,  "When  I  am  gone  perhaps 
some  of  my  affairs  will  turn  up  trumps, 
but  as  long  as  I  live  luck  is  dead  against 
everything  I  undertake." 

Mrs.  Westcott  died  in  January, 
1890,  and  after  that  my  brother  lived 
very  quietly,  going  seldom  into  society. 
He  was  at  that  time  singing  in  church, 
and  cared  more  for  his  music  than  any- 
thing else.  His  voice  was  a  baritone  of 
unusual  compass  and  purity  of  tone.  It 
was  his  delight  to  spend  hours  reading 
new  songs  or  going  over  old  ones,  of 
80 


Letters 

which  he  had  a  very  large  and  valuable 
collection  accumulated  from  wherever 
he  traveled  in  this  country  or  abroad. 
The  loss  of  his  voice  as  the  disease 
which  ended  his  life  progressed  was  to 
him  the  greatest  grief  imaginable,  and 
his  depression  at  that  time  was  most 
distressing. 

Writing  to  his  daughter  during  the 
campaign  of  '96,  he  says  : 

"  I  think  it  should  be  just  as  much 
a  part  of  a  woman's  education  and  duty 
to  become  intelligent  upon  questions  of 
government  and  finance  as  a  man's — in 
this  country  of  all  others,  where  it  is  in 
the  hands  of  the  people  at  large  to  de- 
cide the  most  intricate  questions  of  pub- 
lic policy  at  the  polls,  of  which  the 
present  situation  is  an  instance.  I  do 
not  believe  in  the  extension  of  suffrage 
81 


The  Teller 


to  women,  largely  because  I  think  it  far 
too  greatly  extended  already ;  but  though 
a  woman  may  not  vote,  she  ought  to 
know  how  she  would  vote  if  she  could, 
and  give  a  reason  for  it.  In  Great  Brit- 
ain women  take  an  interest  in  politics 
which  has  no  parallel  in  America,  and 
they  make  themselves  felt.  It  is  the 
rarest  thing  in  this  country  to  find  a 
woman  who  has  interest  enough  in  pub- 
lic questions  to  have  formed  an  intelli- 
gent opinion  upon  them. 

"  I  regret  deeply  that  I  can  take  no 
very  active  part  in  the  present  cam- 
paign." 


The  following  are  miscellaneous  ex- 
tracts from  letters  written  at  different 
times  to  Mr.  Westcott's  daughter  and  a 
favorite  cousin  : 

82 


Letters 

"It  is  said  that  all  letters  between 
friends  begin  with  an  apology  of  some 
sort.  Perhaps  mine  may  be  more  in 
the  nature  of  an  explanation — though, 
for  the  matter  of  that,  almost  all  expla- 
nations are  in  the  nature  of  apologies. 
Mine  is  that  for  several  years  I  have 
been  so  troubled  with  scrivener's  cramp 
that  any  continued  effort  with  the  pen 
causes  me  acute  discomfort,  not  to  say 
distress,  and  I  have  been  driven  to  the 
use  of  the  typewriter  as  an  alternative. 
I  don't  believe  you  ever  had  a  typewrit- 
ten letter  before,  and  it  may  give  you  a 
new  sensation  which,  provided  it  be  not 
a  shock,  is  not  a  bad  thing." 

Of  a  friend  who  had  recently  died, 
he  says  : 

"As  I  saw  and  talked  with  him  a 
good  many  times  in  his  last  illness,  I 

33 


The  Teller 


declare  to  you  I  envied  him  that  he 
could  pass  out  of  this  life  and  leave  be- 
hind him  not  one  unkind  thought  or 
criticism  that  would  have  pained  him 
or  his  to  know,  and  without  the  ap- 
prehension that  even  his  death  would 
leave  any  one  depending  on  him  mere- 
ly a  heritage  of  perplexity  and  distress. 
I  used  to  think  that  the  saying,  'to 
die  is  gain,'  was  cant  and  nonsense — 
I  do  not  think  so  now.  Death  is 
calamity  only  for  the  living." 

"  We  have  a  new  member  of  the  fam- 
ily. H suddenly  developed  a  crav- 
ing to  be  the  owner  of  a  dog — a  hunt- 
ing dog.  I  represented  to  him  that  we 
had  no  place  for  a  dog  and  no  facilities 
for  insuring  the  welfare  or  comfort  of  a 
member  of  the  canine  race  who  would 
require  more  in  the  way  of  accommo- 


> 

X 

<u 
co 

! 


Letters 

dation  than  poor  old  Toby,  of  whom  we 
are  on  all  accounts  glad  to  be  rid.  I 
also  represented  to  him  that  a  strange 
young  dog  which  would  have  to  be 
fed  and  looked  after  would  be  a  cor- 
roding nuisance,  of  which  he  would  be 
thoroughly  sick  and  tired  in  a  short 
time  and  would  probably  neglect. 
Well,  my  arguments  and  representa- 
tions were  so  forcible  and  effective  that 
the  very  next  day  he  went  off  and 
bought  a  dog,  and  brought  him  home, 
and  though  it  is  about  ten  days  since, 
the  trials  and  perplexities  which  have 
entailed  would  fill  a  volume.  The  first 
night  was  something  awful.  The  dog 
'  moored  his  bark '  not  on  '  the  wild 
New  England  shore,'  but  under  the  side 
piazza ;  and  of  all  the  howls,  shrieks  and 
yells,  barks,  whimperings,  moans  and 
groans  which  were  emitted  by  all  dogs 

85 


The  Teller 


since  the  world  began,  those  which  rent 
the  air  for  miles  around  and  strewed 
the  environing  neighborhood  with 
awful  sound  that  night  were  the  equal. 
There  was  nothing  for  it  sometime  in 
the  small  hours  but  to  bring  the  beast 
into  the  house.  The  next  morning  he 
was  again  tied  to  the  end  of  the  piazza, 
under  which  he  could  retire  at  the  ap- 
proach of  danger — which  was  frequently, 
seeing  that  his  melancholy  did  not  find 
relief  except  vocally.  I  went  out  to 
take  my  morning  sun-bath,  as  I  have 
been  in  the  habit  of  doing  when  the 
weather  was  propitious,  and  the  thing 

was  intolerable.     R was  here,  and 

after  an  hour  or  so  appeared  on  the 
scene  and  carried  the  infant  off  down- 
town to  the  office  where  H was, 

upon  my  declaration  that  I  would  turn 

the  calliope  loose   to  fend  for  himself 

86 


Letters 

and  be  duly  advertised  for.  So  that 
night  H quartered  him  in  a  neigh- 
bor's barn,  and  supposed  that  settled  the 
question.  But  it  seems  that  there  are 
some  people  who  live  forninst  the  barn 
who  do  not  like  the  sort  of  music  of 
which  Grouse's  repertoire  consists,  and 
that  or  the  next  night  the  poor  chap 
was  bitten  or  cut  till  'he  was  a  mass  of 
wounds.  Night  before  last  he  was  again 
in  the  barn,  but  in  some  way  broke  out 
— or  was  let  out,  and  in  a  state  which 
called  for  surgical  treatment.  The  situ- 
ation now  is  that  he  is  too  sick  to  howl, 
and  was  tied  up  under  the  front  steps 

as  aforesaid  ;  but  P 's  heart  misgave 

him  and  he  got  the  poor  beast  in  the 
nursery  for  the  night,  and  to-morrow  I 
shall  be  head  nurse  in  a  puppy  hospital. 
"Oh,  yes,  surely,  and  '/  knowed  it 
all  the  time' 

87 


The  Teller 


"  I  have  given  more  space  to  the 
dog  matter  than  it  warrants  perhaps, 
but  nobody  who  isn't  actually  on  the 
ground  can  appreciate  how  interest- 
ing it  is.  The  fact  of  it  is  (and  don't 
mention  it  to  nobody)  that  I  like 
the  dog  and  he  has  got  on  my  mind, 
but  I  don't  see  my  way  to  assuming 
the  entire  responsibility  of  his  wel- 
fare and  amusement." 


Writing  of  Christmas,  he  says : 

"  Even  the  old  man's  stocking  was 
not  forgotten.  In  it  was  a  handsome 
umbrella -cane,  a  new  traveling  -  case, 
letter-scale,  etc.,  etc.  Blessed  are  those 
who  expect  nothing,  for  unto  them 
shall  be  added  umbrella-canes,  letter- 
scales,  calendars,  and  all  and  sundry 
88 


Letters 

shall  be  given,  and  verily  their  stock- 
ing shall  be  exalted — so  to  speak." 


"  When  one  gets  to  fifty  years  one 
may  be  exempt  from  the  bother  of 
razors  and  lather  and  things,  and,  in 
fact,  the  doctor  hasx  advised  me  to 
'grow  a  beard.'  The  consequence  is 
I  look  like  one  of  those  things  'you 
see  when  you  don't  have  a  gun.' ' 


"  I  am  sending  you  a  copy  of  the 
Atlantic  Monthly,  which  contains  some 
account  of  the  '  Westcote '  family.  We 
are,  undoubtedly  (from  all  that  I  can 
gather — tho'  there  are  missing  links), 
descendants  of  the  Stukely  Westcote 
mentioned  in  the  article.  There  are 
not  many  Westcotts  with  whom  I  am 
7  89 


The  Teller 


acquainted,  however,  who  would  be 
likely  to  be  driven  out  of  their  adopted 
place  on  account  of  the  fervor  of  their 
religious  enthusiasm,  as  Stukely  appears 
to  have  been.  Perhaps  it  may  give  you 
a  feeling  of  importance  to  know  that 
your  family  goes  back  to  1170." 


In  April,  '97,  he  writes  : 

"  Day  before  yesterday  I  did  a  little 
necessary  work  on  the  machine  for  the 
first  time  since  January.  In  fact,  I  did 
not  do  any  real  work  then ;  I  put  the 
paper  in,  but  felt  so  ill  that  I  abandoned 
the  effort  and  went  to  bed,  where  I 
have  been  almost  continuously  ever 
since.  I  have  been  up  all  day  since 
then  but  for  three  days.  I  am  getting 
on  a  bit  now  and  hope  to  be  about 
90 


Letters 

the  house  as  usual — at  least  before  long 
— and  when  the  warm  weather  sets  in 
to  get  out  again." 

000 

"Miss ,  who  was  the  invalid  of 

a  family  of  fourteen ,  or  seventeen  (I 
forget  which),  has  just  died  at  the  age  of 
eighty  or  so,  having  probably  hastened 
her  untimely  end  by  a  habit  which  she 
had  of  falling  down-stairs,  with  varia- 
tions of  running  into  things  and  bump- 
ing. Her  nephew,  with  whom  she 
lived  for  years,  felt  her  loss  one  hundred 
and  twenty  dollars'  worth — so  he  told 
me,  and  I  could  not  doubt  the  sincerity 
of  his  grief." 


91 


The  Teller 


The  manuscript  of  David  Harum 
was  received  by  D.  Appleton  and  Com- 
pany on  December  23d,  1897.  It  was 
accompanied  by  the  following  letter : 

"I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  sending 
you,  by  the  American  Express  to-day, 
the  typewritten  manuscript  of  a  story 
of  American  life  which  I  have  recently 
completed,  entitled  David  Harum.  I 
desire  to  submit  this  to  you  for  ex- 
amination, with  a  view  to  its  publica- 
tion, and  trust  you  will  find  it  suited 
to  your  requirements." 

The  manuscript  was  read  with  ap- 
preciation, and  a  letter  was  sent  to  the 
author  expressing  a  desire  "to  make 
David  Harum's  delightful  humor  known 
to  the  reading  public." 


000 


92 


Letters 

The  following  extracts  are  from  a 
letter  dictated  by  Mr.  Westcott  on 
January  19,  1898  : 

"  I  feel  very  grateful  to  you.  I  have 
lived  with  and  among  the  people  I  have 
written  about.  My  father  was  born  and 
'raised  on  Buxton  Hill,'  and  a  great 
many  of  David's  peculiar  figures  and 
sayings  were  constantly  cropping  out 
in  my  father's  diction.  The  district, 
which  is  the  scene  of  my  story,  should 
be  described  as  being  in  Northern  Cen- 
tral New  York  rather  than  Northern 
New  York." 

0*0 

"  It  is  true  that  Lenox's  love  affair 
is  in  abeyance  from  the  first  part  of  the 
book  to  the  latter  part.  It  seems  to 
me  that  if  Lenox's  love  affair  had  been 
carried  along  to  a  prosperous  conclu- 
93 


The  Teller 


sion  from  the  start,  there  would  have 
been  no  reason  for  him,  or  anybody 
else,  to  make  David  Harum's  acquaint- 
ance. I  purposely  laid  but  little  stress 
upon  the  episode ;  to  my  mind  the 
sentiment,  so  to  speak,  of  the  book 
lies  more  in  John's  engagement,  of  the 
affection  of  the  eccentric  old  couple, 
and  the  prosperity  which  followed  from 
it,  putting  him  in  a  position  to  marry 
the  woman  of  his  choice  at  the  last." 


In  another  part  of  the  same  letter 
Mr.  Westcott  says : 

"If  David  Harum  were  to  be  pub- 
lished, even  without  much  delay,  it 
would,  in  all  probability,  be  posthu- 
mous. I  have  had  the  fun  of  writing 
it,  anyway,  and  nobody  will  ever  laugh 
94 


Letters 


over  it  more  than  I  have.  I  never 
could  tell  what  David  was  going  to 
say  next." 


The  last  letter  of  this  correspond- 
ence was  dated  February  3d.  The  fol- 
lowing is  an  extract :  ' 

"Your  kind  letter  of  the  2ist  ought 
to  have  had  an  earlier  reply,  but  I  have 
been  suffering  from  an  exacerbation  of 
some  of  the  more  painful  symptoms 
of  my  disorder  to  such  an  extent  as 
to  make  it  practically  impossible  to 
give  anything  any  very  serious  atten- 
tion. I  did,  however,  on  the  receipt 
of  your  letter,  discuss  the  matter  with 
my  friend  Mr.  Forbes  Heermans.  He 
said  he  would  go  through  the  manu- 
script carefully,  with  reference  to  what 

95 


The  Teller 


might  be  excised,  and  give  me  the 
benefit  of  his  conclusions.  I  presume 
that  he  will  give  me  his  report  before 
long.  I  beg  to  offer  my  best  regards. 
"  Sincerely, 

"  E.  N.  WESTCOTT." 


96 


EDWARD   NOYES  WESTCOTT 

BY 

FORBES  HEERMANS 


E.  N.  Westcott. 

From  a  photograph  taken  in  1889. 


EDWARD   NOYES  WESTCOTT 

THE  interest  which  is  always  felt  in 
the  life  and  personality  of  the  writer  of 
a  successful  book  originates,  it  would 
seem,  in  the  sympathetic  and  kindly  de- 
sire of  his  readers  for  a  more  intimate 
acquaintance  with  him  than  they  can 
attain  through  the  medium  of  his  fic- 
titious characters.  This  is  surely  not 
mere  curiosity,  but  rather  an  expression 
of  genuine  affection,  and  therefore  the 
few  lines  of  biography  which  appeared 
with  the  earlier  editions  of  David 
Harum  may  quite  properly  be  some- 
what extended,  since  the  author  has 
achieved  a  great,  though  unhappily  a 
posthumous,  fame. 

99 


The  Teller 


For  it  may  reasonably  be  doubted  if 
any  work  of  American  fiction  has  ever 
had  such  a  widespread  and  instanta- 
neous success  as  David  Harum.  It 
has  been  the  theme  for  many  poems 
and  parodies ;  the  text  for  homilies ; 
the  inspiration  for  the  cartoonist ;  the 
source  of  the  orator's  wit ;  and  an  as- 
trologer has  asked  in  all  seriousness  for 
full  details  of  the  history  of  the  book 
and  its  author,  so  that  he  may  cast  the 
horoscopes  of  novels  yet  unpublished, 
and  thereby  foretell  success  or  failure. 

Many  people,  hitherto  quite  un- 
known, have  unblushingly  set  forth 
their  claims  to  be  the  "  originals "  of 
one  or  another  character  of  the  book ; 
and  while  these  foolish  attempts  to  ac- 
quire a  little  unearned  importance  are 
more  absurd  than  serious,  yet  it  may 
not  be  out  of  place  here  to  state  that 
100 


E.  N. 


all  such  claims  are  absolutely  *  witlicaif 
foundation.  The  characters  are  all 
drawn  from  life,  it  is  true,  in  the  sense 
that  they  are  lifelike,  but  not  from  in- 
dividuals. Each  one  is  entirely  the  cre- 
ation of  the  author's  imagination,  and 
this  fact  he  asserted  with  much  earnest- 
ness, over  and  over  again.  "  I  should 
not  dare  put  real  people,  just  as  I  see 
them,  into  my  book,"  he  once  charac- 
teristically said  ;  "  they'd  spoil  it." 

The  author  of  David  Harum  was 
born  in  Syracuse,  New  York,  Septem- 
ber 27,  1846,  and  died  there  of  pulmo- 
nary consumption,  March  31,  1898,  in 
his  fifty-second  year.  He  was  married 
in  1874  to  Jane  Dows  of  Buffalo,  and 
she,  dying  in  1890,  left  three  children, 
Harold,  Violet,  and  Philip.  His  father 
was  Doctor  Amos  Westcott,  once  one 
of  the  conspicuous  citizens  of  Syracuse, 
101 


The  Teller 

4 


.  . 


and  during  part   of   the   civil   war    its 
mayor. 

Edward  was  educated  in  the  public 
schools  of  the  city,  finishing  with  the 
High  School  when  about  sixteen. 
Even  at  that  age  he  had  clearly  de- 
veloped the  temperament  and  mind  of 
the  student.  But  instead  of  contin- 
uing his  studies  in  college,  as  he  greatly 
desired  to  do,  he  found  it  necessary  to 
enter  at  once  upon  a  business  career. 
It  is,  of  course,  quite  futile  now  to  im- 
agine what  other  results  would  have 
followed  had  he  been  allowed  to  pursue 
his  inclination  in  this  matter ;  but  it  is 
certain  that  the  discipline  of  a  university 
training,  and  particularly  the  stimulat- 
ing effect  of  intellectual  competition 
and  the  necessary  mental  concentration, 
would  have  produced  a  great  and  valu- 
able impression  upon  his  sensitive,  ar- 
102 


E.  N.  Westcott 


tistic  temperament.  For  if  ever  a  man 
was  endowed  too  richly,  it  was  the 
author  of  David  Harum.  Besides  be- 
ing a  novelist  and  a  man  of  business, 
he  was  a  musician,  a  poet,  and  a  con- 
versationalist of  conspicuous  powers. 
He  did  well  all  that  he  undertook,  but 
because  he  could  do  so  many  things 
easily  he  did  not  often  feel  impelled  to 
concentrate  his  efforts  upon  one  thing. 
It  was  not  until  his  long  and  fatal  ill- 
ness took  from  him  the  power  thus 
variously  to  occupy  himself  that  he  be- 
gan the  work  that  has  made  him  famous. 
Being  deprived  by  circumstances  of 
the  education  he  longed  for  he  became 
his  own  teacher ;  and  in  this  his  inher- 
ent good  taste,  receptive  mind,  and  re- 
tentive memory  enabled  him  to  select 
and  rapidly  acquire  a  great  store  of  use- 
ful and  ready  knowledge.  Throughout 
103 


The  Teller 


his  life  he  was  a  voluminous  reader; 
and  while  fiction  and  poetry  were  his 
favorite  branches  of  literature,  yet  his 
tastes  were  catholic  enough  to  cover  all 
the  sciences,  and  he  was  particularly  in- 
terested in  questions  of  finance.  The 
drudgery  and  monotony  of  a  commer- 
cial life  were  always  very  irksome  to 
him,  but  being  compelled  to  disregard 
his  tastes,  he  did  so  completely.  His 
active  years  were  wholly  devoted  to 
business,  in  which  he  started  as  a  junior 
clerk  in  the  Mechanics'  Bank  of  Syra- 
cuse. Then  followed  two  years  in  the 
New  York  office  of  the  Mutual  Life 
Insurance  Company ;  after  which,  re- 
turning to  Syracuse,  he  again  became  a 
junior  bank  clerk,  then  teller,  and  then 
cashier.  About  1880  he  founded  the 
firm  of  Westcott  and  Abbott,  bankers 
and  brokers ;  and  when  this  partnership 
104 


E.  N.  Westcott 


was  dissolved  he  became  the  registrar 
and  financial  expert  of  the  Syracuse 
Water  Commission,  which  was  at  that 
time  installing  a  new  and  costly  system 
of  water-supply  throughout  the  city. 
Over  three  million  dollars  passed  through 
his  hands  in  the  execution  of  this  work  ; 
and  his  management  of  these  great 
financial  interests  was  distinguished  by 
absolute  fidelity  and  accuracy. 

In  personal  appearance  Mr.  West- 
cott was  tall,  slender,  and  graceful ;  and 
his  handsome,  intellectual  face  would 
light  up  in  greeting  a  friend  with  a  smile 
that  was  extremely  attractive  and  mag- 
netic. It  was  undoubtedly  in  music 
that  he  found  his  greatest  pleasure  ;  for 
though  in  business  hours  he  always  sub- 
ordinated the  artistic  side  of  his  nature 
to  the  requirements  of  the  moment,  yet 
these  duties  being  ended  for  the  day,  he 
a  105 


The  Teller 


let  the  other  talents  appear.  He  was 
endowed  with  a  fine  baritone  voice,  and 
having  received  most  excellent  profes- 
sional training,  he  became  a  conspicu- 
ous figure  in  the  musical  circles  of 
Central  New  York.  His  knowledge 
of  music  as  well  as  his  acquaintance 
with  banking  have  benefited  the  readers 
of  David  Harum  ;  for  in  describing  the 
trials  of  a  church  choir  director,  and  the 
methods  of  a  country  bank,  the  author 
has  clearly  drawn  upon  his  memory  for 
his  facts.  He  possessed  also  a  consid- 
able  talent  for  musical  composition,  and 
several  songs,  of  which  he  wrote  not 
only  the  words  and  air,  but  the  har- 
mony as  well,  have  been  published,  and 
sung  by  those  who  may  never  know  the 
author's  name. 

Those  who  knew  Mr.  Westcott  in 
the  years  when  he  was  an  intellectual 
1 06 


E.  N.  Westcott 


leader  in  his  native  city — and  his  house 
was  a  center  for  musical  and  artistic 
men  and  women — may  still  recall  some 
of  his  wise  and  witty  sayings.  Yet, 
with  all  his  quickness  and  keenness,  he 
never  intentionally  uttered  a  word  that 
hurt,  and  his  fine  courtesy  was  invaria- 
bly a  most  conspicuous  part  of  his  bear- 
ing. The  genial  humor  which  he  has  so 
successfully  infused  into  his  book  was 
actually  his  own,  and  was  constantly 
exhibited  in  every-day  affairs. 

It  was  not  until  he  retired  from  all 
business  occupations  because  of  the 
collapse  of  his  health  and  the  certain 
knowledge  that  he  could  not  recover, 
that  Mr.  Westcott  seriously  thought  of 
doing  any  literary  work  for  publication. 
He  had  written  much  in  the  past,  and 
doubtless  realized  that  he  possessed 
unusual  literary  powers ;  but,  with  the 
107 


The  Teller 


exception  of  a  series  of  letters  upon 
financial  and  political  topics,  very  little 
had  ever  reached  the  public.  At  the 
outset  his  chief  hope  was  not  to  win 
fame  or  reward — these,  indeed,  he 
seemed  not  to  think  of — but  rather  to 
find  an  occupation  that  should  busy  his 
mind  and  hands.  "  I  have  been  so 
closely  tied  to  a  routine  all  my  life,"  he 
once  said,  "that,  now  I  am  free,  I  find 
I  have  lost  all  power  of  self-employ- 
ment." The  failure  of  his  voice  about 
this  time,  which  was  due  to  the  prog- 
ress of  his  disease,  caused  him  the 
greatest  distress,  and,  more  than  any- 
thing, impressed  him  with  the  serious- 
ness of  his  condition. 

Little  by  little,  however,  he  grew 

accustomed  to  the  changed  conditions 

of  his  life  ;   the  artistic  side  was  now 

having  a  chance  to  develop   along  an 

108 


E.  N.  Westcott 


unobstructed  path ;  the  limitations 
which  his  failing  health  placed  upon 
him  were  combining  his  efforts  in  one 
or  two  directions,  instead  of  the  five  or 
six  along  which  he  had  previously  al- 
lowed his  talents  to  stray ;  and  pres- 
ently he  had  made  a  tentative  start  on 
David  Harum.  This  was  in  the  sum- 
mer of  1895,  while  he  was  living  at 
Lake  Meacham  in  the  Adirondacks, 
where  he  had  gone  in  the  vain  hope 
that  the  climate  would  stay  the  progress 
of  his  disease. 

The  first  work  thus  done  by  him 
produced  what  are  now  substantially 
Chapters  XIX-XXIV ;  that  is,  the 
scenes  between  David,  John,  and  the 
Widow  Cullom,  and  the  Christmas  din- 
ner that  follows  them  ;  and  these  pages 
constitute  the  nucleus  about  which 
the  others  were  eventually  assembled. 
109 


The  Teller 


When  the  author  returned  to  Syracuse 
late  in  the  fall  of  1895,  he  diffidently 
showed  his  work  to  some  of  his  friends, 
and  was  urged  by  them  to  complete  it. 
He  really  needed  little  urging,  for  he 
had  already  become  interested  in  his 
characters,  and  as  he  went  on  he  found 
the  work  becoming  a  real  pleasure. 

His  method  of  composition  was 
first  to  prepare  a  rough  sketch  or  out- 
line of  a  chapter  with  a  lead-pencil  on 
ordinary  copy  paper.  He  was  unable 
to  use  a  pen  freely,  as  he  suffered  from 
scrivener's  palsy.  These  notes  being 
finished,  he  rewrote  them  on  a  type- 
writer, enlarging  or  deleting  as  he  went 
along  ;  and  this  work  was  again  revised 
or  reconstructed  until  the  author  was  sat- 
isfied. In  most  cases  the  chapters  were 
completed  in  their  present  order,  the 
exceptions  being  those  just  mentioned 
no 


E.  N.  Westcott 


(XIX-XXIV),  and  those  which  are 
now  Chapters  I  and  II,  these  being 
written  last  of  all  and  prefixed  to  the 
story  as  it  then  stood  in  order  to  intro- 
duce David  and  Aunt  Polly  to  the 
reader  at  the  very  beginning.  In  all 
the  author  occupied  about  fifteen 
months  of  actual  time  in  writing  his 
book,  though  a  somewhat  greater  inter- 
val than  this  elapsed  between  the  start 
and  the  finish,  since  there  were  often 
days,  and  even  weeks,  together  when 
he  was  unable  to  write  a  line  because  of 
his  physical  prostration.  Often,  too,  he 
would  become  discouraged  as  to  the 
value  of  his  labors,  a  discouragement 
his  friends  laughed  out  of  him ;  yet  in 
the  main  his  progress  was  steady,  and 
the  story  was  completed  about  the  end 
of  1896. 

The  question  has  been  asked,  Did 
in 


The  Teller 


Mr.  Westcott  leave  his  book  unfin- 
ished ?  No ;  every  line  and  word  of 
the  story  are  his  own,  and  two  com- 
plete typewritten  copies  of  it  were 
made  by  his  own  hand  nearly  a  year 
before  his  death.  Even  in  this  me- 
chanical part  of  the  work  his  lifelong 
habits  of  neatness  and  accuracy  were 
conspicuous,  and  it  is  doubtful  if 
"  cleaner  copy  "  were  ever  given  to  the 
printer. 

The  book  was  read  and  recom- 
mended by  Mr.  Ripley  Hitchcock,  and 
accepted  by  D.  Appleton  and  Co.  early 
in  January,  1898  ;  and  the  cordial  words 
of  commendation  which  were  then  sent 
to  the  author  by  Mr.  Hitchcock  were 
"  more  welcome,"  so  he  said,  "  than  any 
gift  I  could  have  received."  His  health 
actually  rallied  a  little  at  this  time  in 
response  to  the  mental  exhilaration, 
112 


E.  N.  Westcott 


but  only  temporarily,  and  never  suf- 
ficiently to  permit  him  to  leave  his  bed. 
He  was  able  to  conduct  the  preliminary 
business  negotiations  himself,  however  ; 
but  he  died  without  knowing,  and  per- 
haps without  suspecting,  the  extraor- 
dinary welcome  that  was  to  be  given 
his  book.  Yet  when  we  read  in  Chap- 
ter XLVI I  his  own  words,  "Many  of 
the  disappointments  of  life,  if  not  the 
greater  part,  come  because  events  are 
unpunctual.  They  have  a  way  of  ar- 
riving sometimes  too  early,  or  worse, 
too  late,"  their  prophetic  significance 
is  now  profoundly  impressive. 


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"We  have  in  the  character  of  David  Harum  a  perfectly  clean 
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depicted  a  type  of  character  that  is  by  no  means  new  to  fiction, 
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"  We  give  Edward  Noyes  Westcott  his  tme  place  in  American 
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American  readers.  If  the  author  is  dead — lamentable  fact — his 
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up  against  the  characters  in  real  life." 

A  Little  Norsk; 

Ort  Or  Pap's  Flaxen.      i6mo.     Boards,  50  cents. 

"  A  delightful  story,  full  of  humor  of  the  finest  kind,  genuine  pathos, 
and  enthralling  in  its  vivid  human  interest." — London  Academy. 

D.  APPLETON   AND    COMPANY,   NEW  YORK. 


BOOKS  BY  E*  F*  BENSON. 

The  Luck  of  the  Vails*     izmo.    Cloth,  $150. 

"  If  Mr.  Benson  continues  to  write  novels  as  interesting-  as  this 
latest  production  from  his  pen — stories  that  will  hold  the  attention 
of  the  reader  as  absorbingly  as  this  one  is  sure  to  do — he  is  very 
likely  to  win  a  name  among  English  fiction  writers  that  shall  be  as 
lasting  as,  say,  the  name  of  Wilkie  Collins." — Brooklyn  Eagle. 

Mammon   &  Co*     izmo.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

"Mr.  Benson  writes  from  intimate  knowledge  and  the  inside. 
He  is  a  part  of  the  very  society  which  he  openly  censures.  .  .  .  His 
novel  stands  out  as  a  strong  bit  of  work  in  which  he  is  very  much 
at  home.  Its  brilliant  sayings  and  clever  epigrams  give  it  a  finish 
and  polish  which  are  even  more  effective  than  the  setting  itself. 
What  is  more,  Mr.  Benson  sees  with  a  great  deal  of  heart  the 
tragedy  of  human  experience  and  writes  of  it  feelingly." — Boston 
Herald. 

Dodo*     A   Detail  of  tbe    Day.      izmo.     Cloth, 
$1.00;  paper,  50  cents. 

"  *  Dodo  '  is  a  delightfully  witty  sketch  of  the  *  smart  *  people 
of  society.  .  .  .  The  writer  is  a  true  artist." — London  Spectator. 

The   Rubicon*     izmo.     Cloth,    $1.00  ;    paper, 
50  cents. 

"The  anticipations  which  must  have  been  formed  by  all  readers 
of  *  Dodo '  will  in  no  wise  be  disappointed  by  'The  Rubicon.'  The 
new  work  is  well  written,  stimulating,  unconventional,  and,  in  a 
word,  characteristic.  Intellectual  force  is  never  absent,  and  the 
keen  observation  and  knowledge  of  character,  of  which  there  is 
abundant  evidence,  are  aided  by  real  literary  power." — Birmingham 
Post. 

D.  APPLETON   AND   COMPANY,  NEW  YORK. 


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